The Games Children Play
by valleyforge
Summary: If not his father's parting words, what did motivate young Bialar Crais?


No, Farscape doesn't belong to me.  If it did, Crais would have been back in season four kicking eema.

The Games Children Play  
  
  
With both point players covered, Cadet Rion had no choice but to toss the sphere behind him to one of the plebes. Cadet Crais caught the crimson-colored orb full stride, tucked it in tight against his chest and raced for the sanctuary of the center circle. Rion quickly fired the redjackets' final laser elimination beam at the one player with the best chance of downing their colors. The shot scored a direct hit on Senior Cadet Bullot, which left only Cadet Fallax, the slowest man on the blackjacket team to make the play. Crais stutter-stepped, faked to the right, spun, and left Fallax grabbing at air.  
  
Once eliminated, Bullot had no choice but to step aside and let Crais advance past him. Still, there were other ways to slow down an opponent and a more experienced plebe would have known to give Bullot a wider berth. Crais was within the perimeter ring of sanctuary when a handful of sand stung his eyes.  
  
Temporarily blinded, yet careful not to drop the orb, he clutched his face and stumbled forward. Fallax caught him from behind, a crushing shoulder tackle that slammed the younger, smaller boy face down into the turf. Knowing he must never reveal pain or injury to an opponent, Crais promptly tucked his legs beneath him and pushed up with his arms. Having made it to his hands and knees, he filled his lungs with air and let his head droop between his shoulder blades just long enough to spit out the blood and drag a shirtsleeve across his face. With a slight wobble, he struggled to his feet and half trotted, half stumbled, to the adjudicator's box.   
  
"Training Officer Kremla, I was fouled," he panted.   
  
"Either play or pass your badge, Cadet Crais."  
  
He rubbed the moisture from around his eyes, afraid their watery appearance would be mistaken for tears.   
  
"But sir, I was fouled."  
  
"Get back on the field or stand in reserve."   
  
The adjudicator sounded the ready buzzer and the countdown light flashed its sequence. Crais shoved the badge into Cadet Lazahr's hand and trudged dismally to the sideline, where he took his place in the reserve square.  
  
"Boy! Come over here."  
  
After a quick glance over each shoulder, he pulled out his shirttail and began to dab the sand from the corners of his eyes.  
  
"You there...Cadet."  
  
From the spectators' bench, a soldier in the olive drab field dress of a ground assault trooper beckoned to him with a jerk of his head. The older children called them Grounders -- cannon fodder. They lacked technical skills, most having failed basic flight, or finished below average on the scientific aptitude assessments for the tech assignments. They were the bottom of the barrel. Conscripts. The patch of synthetic epidermis on the side of his head left one eye partially closed, his mouth lopsided. His left hand, which consisted of a thumb, fore and middle fingers, resembled the pincher claw of a kelvaran reef walker.   
  
"What is your objective?" the Grounder asked.  
  
Cadet Crais glanced at the playing field and back.   
  
"To score."  
  
"Wrong. That is a means to an end. What is your objective?"  
  
For a moment, the child's dark eyes narrowed in thought and then turned confidently upward.   
  
"To win."  
  
The Grounder settled to one knee, gripped the front of the boy's tunic and pulled him a step closer.   
  
"If a foul is neither seen nor called, does the goal still count?"  
  
"Yes, but he did not play fairly and so..."  
  
"What is your objective?"  
  
"To win," he repeated.  
  
"Fair is a crutch for the weak, boy; an excuse embraced by those who lose. What is your objective in life?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"   
  
The soldier tilted his head and the skin above his good eye furrowed in question.   
  
"A Grounder?"  
  
"No sir," he replied without a microt's hesitation. "I intend to be a prowler pilot."  
  
"Then throw away your crutch and stop making excuses. You've got to leave behind everything you brought here. Everything. The Breeds don't play by those rules."   
  
The remaining fingers on the Grounder's hand curled into the flesh above the boy's elbow.   
  
"Do you understand me?"   
  
"Yes sir," he called out by reflex.  
  
The Grounder squeezed until a small cry escaped the child's lips. He quickly released the pressure, but maintained his grip on the boy's arm.   
  
"Look at me. Do you know what you're looking at?"  
  
Young Crais blinked at him through bleary eyes, and promptly averted his gaze toward the ground without answering.  
  
"You're looking at yourself in another ten cycles...unless you learn to play the game by their rules. And make no mistake, you've got to be better at it than they are."   
  
When he spoke again, his voice had shed its Peacekeeper inflection, softening to an almost fatherly whisper.   
  
"Boy... do you understand what I'm telling you?"  
  
This time Cadet Crais solemnly met and returned the soldier's steady gaze. He absently ran his tongue along his upper lip, which tasted of sweat, and of blood, and of the constant humiliation he had borne since being brought here. It all made sense now.   
  
"Yes sir."  
  
The Grounder nodded. He released his grip and briefly rested the crippled hand atop the boy's shoulder as he rose to his feet.   
  
"Now go play," he said and gave him a swat before he turned and walked to the landing bay corridor.   
  
Crais watched him enter the tunnel where he quickly blended with the other green-coated troopers on their way to the massive, antiquated transports that would drop them on a planet they had never heard of to fight a faceless enemy.  
  
A shout from Cadet Rion reclaimed his attention.   
  
"Crais...are you able to take the field?"  
  
Another of the plebes, Cadet Lazahr limped to the sideline and passed him the player's badge. After a final glance toward the corridor, he fastened the emblem to his tunic and trotted onto the playing field.  
  
Cadet Rion raised his hand and waggled four fingers to signal the formation, a power sweep to the corner sanctuary. Lined up with the second offensive unit, Crais set his stance, one knee down, weight shifted forward on his knuckles. Carefully so the others could not see, he worked two fingers through the synthetic sod until he felt the metal screen that covered the layer of sand atop the deck. He scratched at the wire mesh with his fingertips until he scraped together enough of the tawny grit to close his hand around.  
  
The ready buzzer sounded; the lights blinked countdown. Cadet Bialar Crais clenched his fist and waited for the flash of the starter's pistol. 


End file.
